Darth Traya: A Fragile Alliance

The second installment in an on-going series about the Kreia and the missing chapters of her life. Like with the last I've tried to make sure the story slots into current canon as snugly as possible by basing events on what little material we have. So like the last I hope you'll adopt this as your head-canon!

And for any new readers check out the first installment, Waiting in the Dark.
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A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…

STAR WARSDARTH TRAYA: A FRAGILE ALLIANCE

“To be united by hatred is a fragile alliance at best.”

A fragile era of peace for the Republic is nearing collapse. Almost a year has passed since the Jedi Civil War ended and the tattered territories of Darth Revan’s once powerful empire are more volatile than ever. As the Republic prepares its counter-offensive, determined the wipe the Sith out for ever, a new threat begins its ascent. An ascension predestined by fire and blood...

Prologue

Spoiler

Malachor Five. Once it was a quiet, brooding planet. Content to be forgotten, and recede into its own darkness. But now it was a stage for the bloodiest show in the galaxy, war.

The conflict was electric. Stony Mandalorian bulwarks converged with a scattered armada of sleek Republic warships, colliding in an explosive storm of turbolaser fire, concussion missiles and swarming starfighters. Battlecruisers combusted without warning, capital ships were cleft in two, and hungry pods buried themselves in durasteel hulls. Amongst the indiscriminate carnage a hulking dagger-shaped dreadnought cut a path of order through the maelstrom. The Ravager. Once a nameless Centurion-class battlecruiser – one of only a handful – it had earned its sinister moniker by decimating countless Mandalorian fleets with its devastating firepower. And now it spearheaded a reckless assault on the last of their tattered ranks.

A dull, beetle-shaped battleship hovered defiantly in the Ravager’s path like a bloated fire wasp. Its durasteel carapace illuminated in brazen orange as beams of plasma leapt from its turrets and sapped at the Ravager’s shields, in a desperate attempt to protect the two colossal warships that lay behind it. Like a soldier ant protecting its queen the vessel fiercely defended the cruisers, who with depleted shields and emptied missile bays were entirely defenceless in comparison with the Ravager’s sheer might.

Just then, a large group of tiny vessels flooded from the belly of the battleship, swarming outward in all directions. A dozen, perhaps more, they quickly disappeared amongst the chaos.

“Commander! Boarding parties have breached the starboard hangar!”

The commander cursed under his breath. A Jedi Knight, with sharp muscled features and an angular nose. His skin was a dark brown, a shade lighter than the thick black dreadlocks flowing down his back, tied back tautly at the neck. And a shade darker than his tanned synthleather robes, all buckles and straps. His face was twisted into scowl. The Mandalorians were tearing through their fleets, Revan had yet to reinforce their position, and his skeleton crew was not enough to defend his ship from a boarding action.

“Captain” he boomed in a deep, gravelly voice to one of the red clad officers, who manned a terminal in the sunken pit beside him. “I’m placing you in temporary command of this vessel. Continue General Surik’s directive, drive the Mandalorians towards the planet. I’ll deal with the boarding party.”

“Yes, commander.”

The vessel was rocked with faint shudders as the Jedi raced across the length of the bridge and disappeared into the waiting turbolift. He could hear the sounds of battle ahead, muffled blaster fire, a distant detonation. The screams of the dead and the dying. Propelled by the Force the Jedi drew ever closer to its source. His comlink began to beep as he raced along the corridors.

“Commander, this is the captain speaking.” His voice was muffled by electronic interference. We’ve broken through the Mandalorian defence and dreadnoughts are exposed. But we’ve got several Kyramuds moving in to close the gap and the dreadnoughts are attempting a retreat. Should be pursue?”

“Have Revan’s forces reinforced are position?”

“No commander, they seem to be holding back and we are unable to contact them. The Mandalorians may be jamming external transmissions.”

For but a few seconds the commander considered the situation. If he ordered the charge, he would be disobeying General Surik’s orders, to hold the line and push the enemy back, ship by ship. But that order was bleeding them dry and if he let the warships escape they would recharge their shields, replenish their missile bays and carve a fresh path through his forces. Destroying them would save the lives of countless crewmen, of Jedi.

The choice was clear.

“Move to engage, captain. Have two Hammerheads protect our flanks.”

“Yes, commander.”

“And report to me once you’ve engaged the dreadnoughts.” For a reason he could not place, he felt a faint sense of unease. It would be unwise to ignore it.

Finally arriving at the starboard hangar bay doors, he parted durasteel with a wave of his hand. With terse abruptness his ears were assailed with a cacophony of sound, and his eyes affronted by discordant destruction. As he had suspected, of the tiny fly-shaped craft that had scattered from the dying battleship, a group had boarded the Ravager. And now Mandalorian warriors had flooded the vast hangar, encased in metal exoskeletons. Aggressive T-shaped visors glowed orange through the thick smog billowing from broken vessels and smouldering crates. The smoke flashed sporadically, blue, red, like a luminescent thunderstorm, Mandalorians exchanging fire with Republic soldiers, crouched behind the few remaining cover intact.

The Jedi commander, igniting his blade, plunged into the heat of battle. His purple saber biting through the smoke and tearing through the armour of his enemies. He attacked with ferocity, tempered aggression. No restraint, no relent, he deflected blaster fire with effortless swipes then bore into his enemy with pinwheeling slashes, becoming an intense blur of staccato strikes. To wield such a form demands control, self-discipline, mastery of one’s self, lest their emotions overcome them. But decades of war had eroded his will, the tides of the dark side had swelled, and now, here, at Malachor V, at the end of all things, they threatened to drown him, lest he embrace the flow.

A faint bleeping interrupted him.

“Captain!” the commander yelled, attempting to raise his voice above the chaos. “Have you engaged the dreadnoughts?”

“Yes, commander. We have broken through, and the Hammerheads have moved in to cover the rear–” the Captain paused in mid-sentence.

“What is it captain?” The commander attempted to listen more closely, batting away any blaster fire that threatened to break his concentration.

“The, the warships – their coming about!”

“Coming about?” The commander laughed. “A foolish display of Mandalorian pride, evacuating in the escape pods could have saved lives.” He paused. “Open fire at their flanks. Teach them the errors of their traditions.”

“Preparing to engage, commander.” The captain responded.

A long silence.

Then a hoarse whisper. “But, that can’t be...”

A violent explosion sent shuddersome tremors through the ship, throwing those within it into a staggering gait across the durasteel tiles.

“Captain! What’s going on!” No response. Another explosion, louder and more violent.

“Captain!”

Shaken out of his stupor the Captain babbled a reply. “I – I don’t understand, their shields, their withstanding our attack. And their missile bays aren’t empty! We’re being flanked, their tearing as apart!” Another explosion. “These vessels weren’t crippled, they were bait... It’s a trap!” The comlink fell silent. And the hangar with it. For Mandalorian and Republic soldiers alike had ceased exchanging fire. Instead their attention was drawn to the massive Mandalorian dreadnought that had begun to eclipse the hangar entrance, plunging them all into a black, ominous darkness.

The commander knew what would happen next.

“Fall back! Fall back!” he bellowed. The hangar became awash with a new kind of chaos, not of explosions and blaster fire, but of a frenzied stampede. Weapons clattered to the floor, abandoned, friend blended with foe. And then came the fire. Turbolaser batteries unleashed globs of plasma into the hangar, erupting into flames as they collided with durasteel plating and tarnished starfighters, scorching armour and vaporising flesh, expunging everything in their path. Engulfed in fire and smoke.

The commander flung himself back with the Force and he flew out of the hangar as it combusted into space dust. The doors slammed shut, a puff of fiery smoke escaping as they did. He broke into a fit of coughing, and the Ravager continued its violent shudders as if mimicking his choking splutters.

It was over. The Ravager was lost.

He could hear a faint thrum as the turbolasers recharged. The commander clambered to his feet and tried to run, but tiny pieces of shrapnel had perforated his leg and it buckled under the pain. He cursed under his breath. The turbolasers open fired, and he realised that if he did not move within the next split second he would be atomised. The durasteel doors conflagrated and in a blurred movement he could barely register, much less describe, the Jedi seemed to evaporate, rematerializing down the length of the corridor as it was sucked of oxygen. His booted foot touched the floor and before gravity could act upon him he transformed into a blur, ignoring the protests of his injured leg as his invisible assailant began to systematically obliterate the corridors behind him. With every second another section would disappear in fire and smoke, the air would suck out and a blast door would slam down to silence the destruction. Around him, claxons blared, red lighting flashed with angry impatience, panels exploded and generators burst into flames. And then, without warning, the commander’s vision was engulfed in fire as the wall on his left blossomed into a searing inferno, flinging his body across the corridor like a discarded doll.

His eyes fluttered open, the fire was gone, replaced with a dull haze as his mind threatened to drift into unconsciousness. He was doomed. In moments the Mandalorian guns would tear this corridor apart and he would be destroyed. In those final moments, he tried to centre himself, make peace with the light, but instead he drowned in darkness, struggling to the surface in vain. The dark side poured from the planet below like a plague, and it had infected him. Closing his eyes he welcomed the death that might free him from it.

But death never came. Instead the guns fell silent, the explosions subsided, and the Force, the Force began to scream.

The Jedi clutched his skull crying out in indefinable agony. And the ship cried with him. A great mechanical groan echoing throughout the vessel, sending convulsions through the floor and walls which began to contract and crumple. Realising death would not save him, the Jedi resolved to save himself. He attempted to clamber to his feet, but violent reverberations threw him to the ground as an unseen object collided with the Ravager’s broken flank. But instead of realigning, the Ravager began to lurch downward, tossing the Jedi against crumpling durasteel. Disorientated and confused, he began to clamber towards the only objective that made sense – the escape pods.

Half sliding, half climbing, he crawled into a pod. The walls contracted, tightening their grip. As if the ship itself was opposed to his escape. Instinctively he punched the release. The pod rattled, squealed, then, with a telekinetic shove, rocketed out of the vessel. Slumping against the pods interior, his eyes drifted towards the viewport to stare at the vast emptiness of space.

But space was not so empty.

A sharp intake of breath pierced the quiet. The once raging battle had been completely silenced. Countless warships, dreadnoughts, fighters, cruisers, drifted, torn apart and scattered. All slowly plunging towards the planet below. The planet. Its once lush, lilac landscape had been cracked, fractured, webbed with scars. It was a filthy, blackened mass crackling with energy and echoing a kind of emptiness.

What happened?

With a sudden jolt the escape pod was battered off course, spinning wildly out of control. Wresting himself from the thralls of his horror the Jedi fought to steer the ship from its no doubt fatal course. The silence was broken as he hurtled towards the broken planet, his surreal surroundings erupting into discord. Immense masses of debris collided with one another, splattering shards of shattered metal in all directions. Damaged power cores enveloped themselves in flames. Tiny, broken starfighters drifted between the carcasses of crippled capital ships.

And then with an abrupt surge of invisible energy the pod was tugged forward, rushing towards the planet at immense speed, a hundred thousand pieces of scattered debris plunging downward with it, like a shower of meteorites. And as the viewport became awash with flames, the Jedi cocooned himself in the Force, and closed his eyes...

I

Spoiler

Silence. It was louder than he had imagined. Trapped on an empty graveyard world there was not a sound, and yet the echoing screams of the dead followed him everywhere.

For over five years he had languished on this planet. Although he did not know it. Time no longer had any meaning to him, and his past was a faded memory. But he still remembered the day he had arrived. When the escape pod crashed, burying itself into dead rock, he had been knocked unconscious. But when he finally awoke, he had found himself... hungry. Not for anything as corporeal as flesh, he had soon learned that. Not even the carcass of a storm beast could sate his hunger. It was as if his very being had been torn asunder and a gaping hole left in its place. A hole that could not be filled.

Until he found the captain.

Somehow the captain had somehow managed to escape the ship before it was crippled and crushed against the planet’s surface. He found him broken, weak – but still alive. Clinging to the last vestiges of his fragile existence. He had been so afraid, and when his frightened gaze fell upon commander, that fear had lessened, and a faint glimmer of hope emerged were once there had been none. A chance of salvation. A Jedi had come to rescue him.

But he was no longer a Jedi. The dark side had begun to corrupt him from the moment the Ravager and its fleet dropped out of hyperspace over the shadowed world. And now he had been plunged into its subaqueous depths, never to resurface. In an instant, the captain’s relief reverted to terror as the former Jedi succumbed to his hunger. Drawing on an invisible power he began to leech the last faded dregs of life from broken man. And when he was done, all that was left was a pallid corpse.

For a moment the hunger subsided, the alleviation lifting him into a fleeting state of euphoria. But then the hunger returned, and he fell back into darkness. It had grown, and now it was laced with guilt, remorse, as he stared at the blank, lifeless corpse that was once the Ravager’s captain. His body began to tremble with nameless anger. The pod’s battered, conclave walls began to shake and split. And then, fuelled by a self-hatred, he released a violent burst of energy, a vehement scream, shattering the pod into fractured, broken pieces.

He remembered the image so vividly. The anger and the hatred still burned inside his blackened heart. For five long years he had learned and grown stronger, he taught himself to feed of Malachor’s insidious energies and become empowered by them. They fuelled his rage, his hunger. And yet the darkness only made his hunger swell.

Light. It was everywhere all at once. Flooding every inch of the broken metal carcass he huddled in. The bright white stung intensely and he shielded his paled eyes instinctively as it washed over his blanched white skin. Half a decade in darkness had left him nocturnal. The white glow attempted to pierce through his fingers and sear his pupils. His head began to throb. And yet from the recesses of his scarred mind he managed to drag forth a spark of sentience, beginning to shrug off the primal identity the planet had forced upon him. Searchlights. A scavenging ship perhaps? But here, on Malachor V? Impossible. Something else. Tentatively, he reached out with the Force, and felt a presence, a powerful presence that washed over everything, imprinting another kind of blackness on his cold surroundings. A pneumatic hiss, the ship had landed. The presence grew closer, maybe... a survivor? His instincts told him otherwise. The searchlights still blazed brightly outside and his eyes still burned and head still throbbed. And then a silhouette partially eclipsed the light knelt down in front of him, obscured by the brightness.

“Ah” the voice said, slowly. And then, in a fervent whisper “a Jedi.” The speaker was old, a woman.

“W-Who are you.” He croaked. His voice a pale shade of his former, commanding tone.

“I am Darth Traya,” she replied with a subtle air of importance “a Lord of Sith, heir to the legacy of Darth Revan” she paused “and you... are my new apprentice.”

The man’s eyes grew wide as the word’s sunk in, a Sith? And Revan, a Dark Lord as well? But his thoughts were silenced as an invisible finger, pressed against his temples and the light faded into familiar darkness.

* * *

Several months have passed since my arrival at the Academy, since my master found me in the wreckage strewn across Malachor, since my exile ended. My mind has since been repaired, the memories of my old life have begun to resurface. I was once a Jedi Knight, in service of the Republic and the Order. The vessel I commanded was the Ravager, a Centurion-class cruiser, infamous amongst the Mandalorians. And the ship my master had rescued me in, was a salvage ship of Republic origin, a Corellian model I think. Where she acquired it I cannot say, my memories tell me that scavengers often scour the dead battlefields for salvageable parts. Any scavengers venturing to this forsaken world are foolish, and deserve their fate.

She also told me of Revan, of how he fell to the dark side, but was brainwashed by the Jedi – and how we must take up his fallen mantle. But that name means nothing to me now, few of my memories do. My memories, they are pale, faded images of a past that does not seem my own. Like a broken datapad, discarded by its owner. The screen is cracked. The image is frozen. Its faulty holographic generators have drained the picture of all colours. This is how I feel, this is my past. My master, she tells me that in time I shall forget all of it, and that in time I will embrace my future as a Sith, as her apprentice. But to embrace the darkness within me, it is a difficult thing.

A faint stream of tiny fireflies drifted across Malachor’s mottled black sky. Or so it seemed from the depths of the Trayus Core. In truth they were burning hot shards of debris, violently tugged from their invisible moorings in the planet’s orbit. It was the second shower today. Curious, they were not a regular occurrence. The distraction passed, the bright motes disappeared from her narrow view and her eyes flicked back to the task at hand.

“Do you feel it, apprentice?”

“Yes, master” the kneeling figure responded solemnly. Clad in attire of suitable colour. Black. His garb resembled that of the robes he wore as a Jedi. But instead of a layer of tunics he wore a single-piece undergarment made from thick material, partially obscured by an overtunic that opened at the chest, sloping either over shoulder to slip beneath a thick sash wrapped around his waist before fanning out about his legs to ripple across the cold stone. Durasteel gloves and bracers covered his forearms and armoured boots of the same metal completed his imposing appearance.

Three acolytes with faceless masks and dressed in similar apparel knelt around him. Yet his robes were unique, his master’s only apprentice, and the envy of others.

“Master...”

“Shhhh. Quiet your mind, clear it of all distractions” her voice faded to a pale whisper. “Focus on power within you, remember your training... now reach out, touch the presence of those around you, and draw them in.”

He had performed this ritual many times. She had taught him to control his hunger, to erect a fragile cage around his black heart. Now he lowered those walls, opened himself to the darkness, and allowed his hunger to feed. The acolytes took sharp intakes of breath as a dusky mist swirled about him. He felt them grunt and tremble as their very life force was slowly siphoned away, and then he released them. It took all his willpower to claw back his hunger, and re-confine it to its prison. The acolytes collapsed panting and gasping, then staggered away. It had become a punishment, for those who had disappointed his master.

“And now? How do you feel?” Always the same question, always the same answer.

“Stronger.”

“Such is the nature of the dark side” she continued, it had become a mantra. “Those not afraid to use it can wield the Force as a weapon. To accept the dark side of the Force is to except battle, conflict. But if you win, you will become unstoppable.”

“Yes, master.” He tried to hide his impatience, but in truth he was eager to be done with her lectures.

Traya paused. “I sense you grow tired of my teachings, apprentice.”

“No, ma-”

“But do you understand them?” she interrupted. “Understand this. If you fail to control the Force, it will control you. The process is subtle at first, your perceptions are altered, you personality changes. It twists your mind to think, differently. And then you become a pawn, a blunt instrument with a purpose that is no longer your own. And that is why it must be broken.”

For a moment his eyes seemed to search the floor as he let the words sink in, as another piece of the puzzle slotted into place. The Force binds all things together in the most literal of senses. The Jedi, so ignorant to the truth, embrace its will. Freely accepting servitude to this higher power. Once he had followed this path, and yet what had it given him in return? His life had been torn asunder, leaving him wounded and abandoned. Only now did the intentions of this ‘higher power’ that he had so diligently devoted himself to become clear, it sought to control him. Let the hunger devour the man as so become bound to its will for the rest of his brief existence. And then he would be cast aside.

His jaw clenched tight.

“Well? Do you understand?”

“I do master. We shall break it together.”

Traya looked down at her apprentice with a faint smile, he was learning. No longer did she see indifference in this face but determination. His once youthful appearance had long since been ravaged irrevocably, tarnished by years of exposure to Malachor’s insidious toxins. His bleached skin was webbed with blackened veins, fanning out from his cold lips and faded eyes. Let his disfigurement be a reminder, an example of how the Force would try to poison him.

She watched her apprentice stalk out of the core, taking the cold chill of death with him. He had grown powerful, as a Jedi he had already become skilled with the lightsaber and his telekinetic abilities were considerable. But now a new kind of power was growing within him. She would do her best to ensure it did not consume him, or her.

Exhaling deeply, she began to centre herself. Sitting cross-legged in the centre of the Core. Here her powers were amplified, she was aware of everything. The sharp smack of fist and foot on flesh as her students sparred, the hum of a lightsaber cutting through the air as her apprentice trained with his blade, the crackling of the dark side in the bowels of the academy... and the patter of the Abyssin as the scrabbled about the corridors. So clumsy. His claws were sharp and left tiny grooves in the ancient stone.

Malachor had, affected the creature. At first he was empowered, greedily feasting on its dark energy, hunting the storm beasts as if they were any other prey. But his behaviour had become more erratic, his tendencies more aggressive. She had been forced to cease his sparring cessions with other acolytes as he would almost always slaughter his opponent, replacing them instead with simulacrums and training droids. Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring him here at all. She cast her mind back, back to the tomb of Ajunta Pall where she had encountered the sorry thing. He had been afraid, driven to near madness by spirits of the dead. She had saved him, what she had done was right.

“What do I case for what is right?” She hissed to herself.

It was the way of the Sith, to use the weak, to exploit them.

But there was something else, something else in the Academy... that had not been there before. Traya’s eyes shot open, her trance shattered. Something is wrong.

She was surrounded.

II

Spoiler

Five shadows materialised out of nothing. Assassins. But not of her own Academy, these assassins were different. They were garbed in tight-fitting black robes of ancient design, and beneath raised hoods, steel masks obscured their faces. She could feel them staring, breathing.

“At last, we have cornered the seer.” The deep, gravely tone emanated from their leader.

“It was difficult to trace you here” he continued. “You were wise to abandon the vessel you stole on the fringes of Sith Space, we were indeed tracking it. But unfortunately for you we have been trained in the hunting rituals of our ancestors and they proved most effective. Now we shall return you to our Emperor.”

She should have foreseen this.

“I will not return willingly” she replied defiantly.

“We expected as much. However the Emperor will not tolerate failure.” A thick double-blade lightsaber hilt with a claw shaped emitter guard detached itself from his belt and snapped into his waiting hand, then a crimson blade pierced the chill air. Echoed by the ignition of a half a dozen others.

“Then your Emperor shall be disappointed.” She was already moving, propelling herself high above them her robes flapping as she soared out of the Core and onto the narrow walkway that stretched towards the Academy, blade igniting.

The lead assassin quickly reacted to her manoeuvre, bursting onto the bridge, blade fully extending, the remaining assassins followed behind. As her opponent drew near he leapt forward, saber raised above his head echoing a fierce battle cry, preparing to batter through her defences and cut her down. But Traya recognised his intent immediately and stepped back into an efficient parry, redirecting his weapon to strike upon air and pushing him back with a rapid riposte. A blood red display of energy ensued as the pair danced back and forth along the bridge, the remaining assassins forced to watch as their blades twisted and twirled. Aggressive strikes were met with graceful arcs as the assassin unleashed an angry flurry of attacks upon her defences. But not one hit. And in a bout of anger he recklessly charged his opponent and cut through nothingness as his quarry whipped about his flank and impaled him in the back, driving an audible gasp from his throat.

With a wave of her hand she flung his limp body at her incoming attackers. And as they staggered and crumpled under the weight of the corpse she dashed forward, lacerating the nearest few with lethal cuts and jabs. A barrage of violet lightning darted toward her and the air began to crackle with energy as she caught it in an outstretched hand. The assassin attempted to intensify his attack but she held firm, her palm became charged with raw, elemental power. In a moment, she felts her opponent’s determination crumble into ash, and his body soon followed as she released the energy building between her fingertips, engulfing the assassin in an explosion of electricity. She surveyed the damage as the storm faded, her opponent had been reduced to a charred husk and another collateral fatality, who had foolishly attempted to stop her, lay crumpled and equally scorched beside him.

One remained. She could sense the invasive toxin that froze him in place, paralysed his muscles. Fear. And fear could be used as a weapon. Lightsaber cluttering to the ground he begun to scream and flail, clutching his skull as a mental battle erupted within his head. Reaching out with the Force she broke through his distracted defences, lifting him up in a stranglehold and larruping his body against the Core’s claw-like pillars, each collision throwing up a cloud of grey dust. With his body crippled she unceremoniously dropped him to the ground and stalked towards the crumpled heap.

As the last dregs of life began to dissapitate from his body Traya combed his shattered mind for thoughts, memories. Like retrieving scattered fragments from a heap of dying embers she teased out threads of information from his dying consciousness. A stolen vessel, the one she had stolen. Abandoned, drifting in deep space. A trail, long and faded, leading to Malachor V. Babbling voices, now forced into silence. Of course, Malachor’s electromagnetic field had disrupted their communications. She let out an inward sigh of relief; content in the knowledge this place remained a secret from the Emperor. She knew that Malachor’s natural defences would obscure her from the Jedi, but it seemed that even the Sith were not immune. Resuming her concentration she began her search for another answer, how had they reached the Academy? Buried beneath rock and wreathed in violent storms, no ship could land on its surface without the proper navigation codes... the assassin was fading quickly, the embers had begun to peter out.

A single image flickered into the forefront. Fireflies, flitting across a dark canvas... and then it was gone, the assassin was dead. She could not think what the image had meant; her mind had barely time to register it.

The Core began to stink of burnt flesh, compounding with the powerful malodour of the dark side. But the foul odor was not confined to the Core alone, brushing apart a pair of cold, steel doors revealed bodies scattered across the Academy’s floors. Some were marred with cauterised cuts and charred gouges, other still steamed with the residual effects of Sith lightning. She counted more of her own than of the enemy, that caused a frown.

Her apprentice kneeling amongst another mass of corpses in another room. A dark, sinister mist swirling about him. And yet, the bodies’ bore the marks of a lightsaber, these assassins had not been drained of the Force, he only drew on the energy that lingered in death.

“I have given you power, and yet you do not use it.”

The shadowy mist dissapitated, and her apprentice opened his eyes. They were cold, yet in them she could see flickers of anger, hatred, but it was not directed at her.

“I cannot concentrate, Master. In battle I can only think of my enemy.”

“Then it would appear your training is incomplete... You are not yet ready.”

“I am ready, Master!” He bellowed, making the air tremor. But then he checked himself and bowed his head again, “Send me to fight the Jedi, and they will die. Please.”

He is hungry. She thought.

“No apprentice, there is one less you have yet to learn.”

* * *

The harsh rap of durasteel boot on stone announced her apprentice’s arrival. She could barely feel his presence; he was like a pale shade in every respect. Except his power, that was growing stronger with every moment, as he subconsciously fed of Malachor’s dark life force.

“I am ready, Master” he said, kneeling before her.

“Then we shall begin.” Four Sith adepts materialised around him, he had not sensed them, all the academy’s students had been taught to conceal their presence. Yet despite their efforts, he could sense their intentions. Malicious. Slowly, casually almost, he unhooked his lightsaber. A chrome weapon, with a sculpted, elegant emitter.

“You will not be needing that.” Traya remarked. And with a wave of her hand the saber was tugged from his grip and dropped into her outstretched palm. Disappearing with the folds of her robes.

“I did not summon you her to test your skills with the blade. But to teach you to use your power. These acolytes” she gestured to the four figures around him “are eager to take your place at my side, they will try to kill you.”

She paused.

“And if you attack or kill them in any way other than through your power, by siphoning their vitality, you will die. And one of them will replace you, do you understand?”

“But master, you have not taught me how-” he paused, she watched her apprentice’s jaw clench tight. Anger, hatred.

Good. Such emotions will drive his tenacity, make him stronger. She had no doubts that her apprentice would survive, and she had no intention of killing him if he failed. But such ruses have their uses.

“I understand, Master.”

“Good. Then begin.”

The acolytes ignited their blades and began to circle. Twirling and twisting their weapons in their hands, taunting him. Abruptly one lunged in attempt to impale him on his lightsaber but her apprentice effortlessly side-stepped his opponent, extending a foot to send the acolyte staggering across the arena. Traya frowned; if her apprentice had been armed that acolyte would be dead, overconfidence.

Seizing the opportunity another acolyte lashed out at his unarmed enemy with a bisecting slash, but her apprentice swivelled about and back, narrowly avoiding the attack. A clumsy dance with death ensued as her apprentice evaded every blundering slash, swing and stab – slaloming between flashes of red as if he were a leaf in the wind. But the illusion of ease disguised a mind in intense concentration, and a body slowly tiring.

Breathing heavily, he dodged another blow and slipped out of range. His rage was building. Every thrust, every swipe, was an insult. A symbol of his failure to act. They should be dead, all of them, dry husks on the floor. But he could not concentrate, his hunger toiled within begging to be released but he could not focus. It was as if he were fumbling with the keys for the cage, clumsily attacking the lock. And soon his master would grow bored of this charade and kill him. He knew her.

Another strike, this time vertical backhanded slash. He ducked into a crouch and slid beneath his attacker, then lifted himself upward to roll the acolyte off his back, sending him careering in the other direction. The move was so subtle, so gentle, that it could hardly be defined as an attack. A taunt perhaps, but in truth he wanted nothing more than to tear his head from his body. He could feel the anger of the acolytes spike as the air around him became a fog of wild, dark emotions. Frustration. Hatred. Jealously. Rage. Or perhaps they were his own? He could not tell. The dark side thrummed and he yearned to devour it, his hunger desperately clawing at the walls of his invisible prison. In that moment of distraction a crimson blade brushed against his cheek, in stung with the force of a thousand needles, leaving a tiny cut across his face. Then his rage bubbled over.

“Aaaargh!” with a deafening, primal roar a nameless energy erupted from his black, empty heart and bore into the acolytes with merciless ferocity. Then they were hollow shells, dead. He felt his powers swell, they were strong, but his hunger remained unslaked.

Then the Core fell silent, and without the clamour of the skirmish his heavy breathing became more audible. He waited.

“You allowed your hunger to overwhelm you, to control you.” The displeasure of his master resonated through the silence. “But, it is an improvement. Learn from this apprentice, temper your hunger, quench its thirst, but only by your command.”

“I will try, master.”

“You will do more than try.” She snapped. “Do,” she hissed. “or die.”

“I will do master, I will do better.”

“Then return to your chambers, meditate on what I have said.”

He obliged, and as he left the Trayus Core the bitter taste of failure heavy on his tongue. He would not taste it again.

And I've been feeling a little under the weather lately () so the next chapter will probably be Monday or something and then I'll stick to a more constant schedule of a few a week or something. So stay tuned!

And I've been feeling a little under the weather lately () so the next chapter will probably be Monday or something and then I'll stick to a more constant schedule of a few a week or something. So stay tuned!

Hope you're feeling better!!

But get it on Monday as a birthday present or else

We all live or die as Krayt wills, Stryfe. At his word, I would cut out my own heart. Or yours.

The story continues...
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III

Spoiler

Axxila, planet spanning metropolis and the ‘armpit’ of the Outer Rim. It was city like no other, no spires tapered towards the heavens, no speeders buzzed across the skies. Instead the air was empty, drifting over a vast, cold landscape of steel exhaust pipes, fuel cells, transformers and other dull lumps of metal. It looked akin to a circuit board, but washed in grey and extending across the horizon and into forever. The man-made crust was segmented into blocks, and between each stretched a chasm that led to the underworld ecumenopolis below. A hive filled with slaves, smugglers, thugs, bounty hunters, traders... and soldiers, Sith and Jedi. For beneath the planets quiet surface raged the violent tempest of war.

Here, Axilla’s Sith invaders made their final stand. The cityscape resembled the jaws of a vine cat, stalagmites clambered upwards and stalactites dove down to greet them. The effect was an oppressive maze of towers and spires, wreathed in a disorganised web of speeder lanes snaking like serpents about the superstructures. And deep within this underworld urbania a colossal corridor had become host to the Second Battle of Axilla. The Sith had established their subterranean fortress, nestled at the end of the corridor and jutting from a massive tower. The fortress was spotted with turret emplacements that periodically belched out globs of plasma at their aerial assailants as fierce dogfights erupted above them.

“Lord Sion.” barked a helmet-muffled voice. “They’re coming about for another attack”
Sion stared into the distance at the needle shaped craft racing towards the positions below them. Aurek-class. Tactical strikefighters. They were fast, small profiles, each armed with a pair of proton torpedo launchers. He turned to trooper.

“Our forward turrets will not withstand another assault.” He did not speak with the clipped Core World accent of the Imperial elite, but instead in a thick, grumbling drawl that left a subtle tremulant r-like sound after each vowel. “How long before all the transports have been evacuated?”

“The last of the transports are being loaded as we speak, my lord.” The trooper responded confidently.

Sion scowled impatiently. “I said, how long.”

The trooper was momentarily flustered by the sudden outburst of his superior, but he had been warned. “Apologies, my lord. No more than half an hour.”

It was unnerving, being in his presence, and he was glad to leave it. Lord Sion was a man, human, with cropped black hair and a fierce, muscled face. His skin light, but tanned. But that was not all. The whispers, they say that Sion had been killed, struck down by a Jedi, but brought himself back to life through sheer will. And that now could suffer any injury without dying. The trooper would not have believed these rumours if not for the marks. His face would have been normal, if it were not for the ugly scar etched into the right side of his face. The skin around his eye and on his cheek had peeled away to reveal hardened red flesh, and a web of cracks seemed to sprout from the wound. The eye was atrophied and bulbous, and the reddish tinge of his scar seemed to be slowly spreading across its whitened surface.

There were wounds on his bare chest too, jagged reddish splodges and cracked slashes from conflicts long since forgotten. Across his body he wore a pair of leather straps that pulled a thick black cape tautly to his back. It was a curious thing, affixed with a tall plasteel collar that seemed like a choker about his neck, and attached to it were a pair of metal tubes that curled down seemingly plug into his cloak. The trooper would not know it but Sion’s lungs had been crushed, his rib-cage shattered, the damage had been partially healed but under the intense conditions of war he required additional oxygen to be pumped into his system, which the collar injected through his neck. It was a one weakness Sion would never care to admit, and one no one would dare to ask about.

The clamour of battle caught his attention as the Republic fighters besieged the waning deflector shields of the anti-air emplacements. The battle for Axxila had been waging for three days now and was nearing Republic victory – that was inevitable. But Sion never had any intention of ‘winning’. During the Jedi Civil War Revan’s Empire had conquered this world, along with many other territories within the Ciutric Hegemony – a cluster of systems dominated by the aristocratic nobles of Ciutric IV. Facing destruction or servitude the nobles had chosen the latter and succumbed to Revan’s will. But now, with Revan and Malak gone and their Empire irrevocably fractured the nobles had grown restless, bold. Determined to reclaim their independence and honour they had allied with Republic, and the invasion had followed soon after. But the Sith would not give up so easily.

While of no strategic value the planet itself was a natural fortress world, immune to both orbital bombardment and ground invasions. Only starfighters and gunships could penetrate the surface. Naturally the Sith had adopted it as a stronghold, a stockpile world for armaments, fuel cells and battle droids. Vital resources that Sion would need to forge his new Empire. A stronger Empire, stronger than the last. For now the Empire was leaderless, but it remained vast. Sith warlords eager for power had claimed slices of its crumbling territories, but Sion would unite them, already the governor of this sector had pledged his allegiance. And every day more rallied to his cause.

An angry explosion announced the destruction of the final forward turrets. And out of the thick, resultant smog emerged three bulky Republic gunships. Doors slid apart revealing soldiers clad in red and yellow with cone shaped helmets strapped atop their heads. And leading them a Jedi, a female Nautolan with black wide eyes, clad in unorthodox clothing, a tight fitting synthleather vest and pants. The earthy tones of her attire offset but her pale greenish skin. Any other man may have found her attractive, but Sion only regarded her with disgust, contempt, a thing to be killed.

Sion, locking eyes with her own through the dissipating smoke spat on the floor and snarled, allowing his rage and his hatred to flow over him. He let his pain bubble upward, empower him. Peace is a lie, there is only pain. He recited. Through pain I gain strength. Through strength, victory. Through victory my chains are broken, my pain shall set me free. As the soldiers disembarked from the gunship the platform became awash with blaster fire, his own soldiers flooding in from behind him to combat the Republic forces. In the midst of the fray the Nautolan Jedi ignited twin blades, bating away blaster bolts in a flurry of green as she charged at her Sith opponent.

Sion ignited his own lightsaber as she brought her’s down in a graceful swipe. He quickly responded with an aggressive counterstroke but her second blade flicked into action to parry the blow, redirecting the attack and throwing him off balance as she spun about his flank and swiped at his legs. But Sion was fast and with a fizzling clash he blocked the attack. Her skills were impressive, he sensed a worthy adversary.

But she will fall like the rest.

Letting his rage surge forth Sion launched himself into a belligerent assault, forcing his opponent back with a series one-handed attacks, slashing and chopping and cleaving at her as if she were a piece of meat. The Jedi was momentarily overwhelmed and could do nothing but parry and evade his onslaught of attacks as he drove her away from the transports and towards the rear of the platform. By then it had been engulfed in the throes of battle, awash with soldiers, flashes of blaster fire dappling the durasteel tiles with kaleidoscopic light. Metallic twangs added to the discord as vibroblades clashed in intense melee, but they were pale imitations of the fluorescent blur enacted amongst them. Sion continued to drive the Jedi back, consumed by fury but blinded to his opponent’s intentions as he pushed the Jedi towards short set of stairs that led to the upper tier. Falling back further the Jedi retreated onto the steps and with the advantage of elevation the flow of the battle began to change as Sion was thrown onto the defensive.

Yet, with a primal snarl, Sion leapt at his opponent determined to regain the advantage through brute force. The Jedi stooped into a crouch against the steps and crossed her blades to block the attack, a fierce heat erupted in front of her face as Sion’s blade struck against her own.

She knew of his reputation. She had been told, forewarned of his aberrant appearance. But now only when her face was inches from her own could she comprehend the scope of his monstrosity. His scar, that bulbous sightless eye. It could not stare, and yet it stared at her. Exuding pain, anger, vehement emotion, a destructive impulse verging on madness. And pain, most of all pain. It stung to look at it. The monster snarled again, baring pale greyed teeth. She recoiled, and Sion forced her back, she lost her footing and collapsed on the steps. His face was even closer now; his blade had never lost contact, in seconds it would slice through her face.

“Aaargh!” Sion abruptly arced his backed in unexpected pain as a flurry of blaster fire cut through his cloak and buried into his back. Seizing the opportunity the Jedi thrust him backward. But Sion recovered from what should have been fatal with inhuman endurance, ripping about her flank cape fluttering as she lunged at him. Twisting about in response she raised a blade to block but instead was punched with an invisible force that knocked her back several metres through the air, colliding with a cluster of soldiers attempting to advance.

In that moment of distraction Sion bounded up the remaining steps deflecting pursuing bolts of plasma but was confronted by a pair of Republic soldiers armed with vibroblades. The Republic had advanced to the upper tier, their defences had been overrun. Sion quickly dispatched the first, battering down his defences before slashing him across the chest. He impaled the second in the stomach before he had a chance to strike, then kicked him off the blade without a single afterthought. Another haze of blaster fire sought to impale him, but Sion redirected the bolts back on his attackers. Yet they were quickly replaced by yet another wave, this time lead by the Jedi. He snarled, the Republic outnumbered him. The mottled remainders of his defensive forces were already in retreat. Sion followed suit, backing away towards the gaping mouth of the fortress, a long cargo tunnel stretching indefinitely into blackness. His enemies pursued but as the neared the fortress a series of turrets emerged from its steel edifice and whirred into action, unleashing a salvo of red on their targets.

Sion heard the screams and shouts as the soldiers dove for cover or were cut down, but the Jedi was not so defenceless, batting away the bolts with her lightsabers.

Sion expressed his satisfaction at the turn of events with a macabre grimace. But he could not win here. The Jedi would have to die another day. The tunnel lay open, and Sion raced towards it, leaping from atop the mechanised platform he propelled it into action with a wave of his hand, and the platform took off. But not before a soft clack announced the arrival of a second passenger. Sion did not bother to turn around; he did not need eyes to smell the stench of Jedi. For a moment the pair remained unmoving as the platform sped towards its destination.

Sion snarled for a third time. “You continue to pursue me. Yet it is the pursuit of your own death.”

“You are a monster, Sion.” She responded with an air of calm. “It is my duty to destroy you.”

She was persistent, despite her earlier relapse Sion could sense the determination flowing from her. He would see that she would break.

“Then let us finish this.” Igniting his blade Sion spun about to strike at the Nautolan with a two-handed chop. She responded with a quick parry but was forced to absorb the intensity of the attack and staggered backward. Twirling away from the edge she reengaged her opponent and pair became again an incalculable blur as their blades pinwheeled against each other, erupting in brief flares of orange with every collision. The Jedi was slowly pushed back towards the rushing wall which had adopted a liquid fluidity. The Jedi grimaced with tension as she struggled to deflect and redirect the viciousness of Sion’s attacks, his crimson blade illuminated every jagged groove in his snarling, hissing complexion. She had almost lost all ground, narrowly evading an overhead chop that sliced through the platforms controls instead of vivisecting her stomach. Warning lights began to flash, illuminating the platform in an alarming red, but they went unnoticed as the duel continued. But then with a harsh hum one of her lightsabers was wrenched from her grasp, disappearing into metallic river beneath them.

Before she could recover a she was knocked to the ground with a sharp kick to the chin and she fell with a grunt, with only a single blade remaining she could do nothing but endure the relentless series of brutish blows that Sion proceeded to unleash. Each impact battered away at her waning defences, and the quivering tails of her headdress began to slink dangerously close towards the rushing guillotine that would dash her to pieces in an instant. But the attacks kept coming, she could feel the wind lick at her skin, and she could see Sion’s face, aglow with incendiary rage and the insidious light of his blade.

With a sharp, brief, whining crunch the platform reached its destination, but with the brakes deactivated their arrival was more abrupt that expected. In a blink of an eye the pair were catapulted into the waiting docking bay. But the Jedi had been ready, halting her pell-mell progression with a lithe crouch. Sion, obliviated by his rage, was not so fortunate. His already broken body flung into a wall of steel cargo crates that engulfed in him in a messy heap.

The Jedi stared about her; the tunnel had brought them to a large open area nestled amongst the spires. A series of platforms connected by bridges and stairwells and scattered cargo crates of varying sizes, but most were vacant. And then she watched as a long black cargo ship began to rise upward from amongst the crates, slowly climbing towards the stalactites the plummeted in the opposite direction. Or rather towards the colossal circular shaft that gaped open amongst them, lit up in a pale light and filled with transports and freighters of every kind. All ascending towards the surface.

Fumbling with her utility belt she detached her personal comlink and activated it “Come in, captain. This is commander Kael Dorr. Captain, do you read me? In the background she heard the sound of sound of plastisteel crates being flung across the floor.

“Captain do you read me!” she said with increasing urgency. But the only response was static. “I’ve discovered a secret cargo facility, the Sith are evacuating their stockpiled resources via Herald-class shuttles. You must intercept them! I repeat –” her voice was cut short as an invisible force tugged at the comlink in her hand. But she refused to let it go.

“Your pitiful cries will go unanswered, Jedi” he rumbled. “Your Republic friends cannot hear you here.” Kael stared at Sion with a look of confusion. Her hand trembling and Sion continued his attempts to wrench the comlink from her grasp.

“We stand several thousand kilometres beneath the cities surface. The electromagnetic interference is too great for you to make contact” he paused “...are you ready to die?”

She was not; flicking her blade into a reverse grip she thrust out with her right hand and knocked Sion back. Without hesitating she dashed towards a cargo crane and leapt atop it, racing up its slender neck, blade trailing behind her. And as the last transport began its ascent she leapt off the tip of the crane and landed perfectly atop the roof of the cockpit.

She had not given up yet, if she could reach the surface of even higher ground she may be able to bypass the electromagnetic field and contact the fleet, the captain, anyone.

But Sion knew that too, jerking her head about she watched as he rapidly ascended a stack of cargo crates in hot pursuit, before lunging at the transport with inhuman ability as it began to pull away. A dull clang sent vibrations through the vessel as his gloved hand clasped itself on the shuttles stubby wing, the metal crumpling beneath his fingers.

Impulsively she jumped down onto the wing and hacked at the unwanted appendage as Sion attempted to clamber on to the vessel. Sparks flied and circuitry fizzled as Sion swung simian like back and forth in an effort to avoid her swipes, swinging at her at her with his own blade in a futile attempt to deflect her attacks, but with a circular flourish she whipped the blade from his hand and it vanished into to the deepening abyss below. He changed tactics, drawing on his momentum and swinging a hand upward to thrust out with the Force, knocking Kael off her feet and sending her sprawling against the shuttles sloped side. Then Sion emerged onto the wing from a cloud of smoke that had begun to billow from it.

He was unarmed, defenceless; she could have cut him down there. But instead she had already begun clambering up the side of the vessel in hasty retreat. Sion pursued, propelling himself upward with a single leap he landed on the shuttles narrow roof with and growled. Kael turned to face him with a look of he knew too well. She was afraid.

There is no emotion. There is peace.

Kael rushed at Sion and swiped at him with her blade, at first her strikes met only air as he deftly evaded each attack. But then she swept across his flank and scored side with a deep gash.

Sion cried out in pain.

She rushed in for the killing blow. But instead of dying as she had intended Sion spun around and caught her wrist and she let out a startled gasp, her hand spasmed as Sion tightened his grip forcing her to drop her remaining lightsaber which clattered off the side. Then the ground shuddered and Sion stumbled, seizing the opportunity she lashed out with a series of jabs and kicks, momentarily forcing him back as he blocked and dodged the attacks. Then the shuttle shuddered again, a vehement tremor that interrupted her assault as the left wing exploded into flames, its latticed structure broken and exposed, wreathed in a crackling inferno. Everything began to spin as the shuttle spiralled uncontrollable, corkscrewing downward. The air began awash with smoke and embers, and at the centre of it all, amongst the confusion Sion lunged at Kael, seizing her throat with both hands and pinning her to the ground. She tried to rise, struggle, but he shoved her down, slamming her head against the hull.

Locked in a deadly embrace Sion bore into her black eyes, they were ablaze with fire and smoke, and with fear. The shuttle continued its fatal descent, and Sion never let go.

Then the shuttle hit the landing pad, and they were both engulfed in pain and darkness.

IV

Spoiler

The dark. The crushing weight of wreckage and rubble. It was painfully familiar.

Dorin. Dusky homeworld of the Kel Dor. Four years had passed since the Great Sith War began, a violent conflict instigated by fallen Jedi Exar Kun. And though he did not know it, the war was almost over. A small shuttle touched down on the planet’s surface, throwing up clouds of billowing sand as the metal trespasser disturbed their tranquil sleep. The dust cleared, and from it emerged a shadow clad in the trappings of a Massassi warrior. He was a man, human, with cropped black hair and a muscled face. He was Sion, but young, clean and unsullied. His garb was exotic, a grey carapace affixed with hanging talismans, hooked teeth and knuckle bones. His arms were bare save for a pair of spiked bracers, and ribbons of black fabric flapped about his thighs leaving tall, taloned boots exposed.

The armour had been a gift from his new master, Exar Kun himself. He had thought it garish, with its frivolous talismans and ornaments. But his master told him it was imbued with the ancient magicks of the Massassi, a symbol of his superior status amongst his master’s new Sith Brotherhood. An order of former Jedi who had abandoned their weak ideals to embrace the powers of the dark side. He had been appointed his master’s hand, an invisible blade that would strike unseen at the Jedi and the Republic.

As he drew distant from the ship the sands grew choppy, and the wind began to howl. A storm was brewing, tugging at the hem of his black cape. He pulled the hood over his head and strode forward, one fist clenched around a lightsaber, slowly fading into the folds of the storm. Ahead of him was a colossal ziggurat that looked an earthy extension of the planet itself – the temple of the Baran Do, an ancient sect of reclusive sages. Gifted in the Force it was said that they could peer far into the future.

He was on a mission. Exar Kun had declared a pogrom against the Jedi, a final test for his apprentices. They were to hunt down their former masters and murder them. It would be easy. His master was not difficult to find. Even with his connection to the light severed, and his ascension to the dark side complete, he could still sense his master’s presence. He had tracked him down here, to the Dorin system, where his master was no doubt seeking the advice of the seers as he had done many times before. Only a Jedi would seek guidance from the feeble and the weak.

The temple grew ever closer, ominous and looming. The storm had not subsided but instead had begun to reach a deafening crescendo. Throwing open the burnished entrance he stepped inside, silencing the howling of the wind as the doors slammed shut.

Inside the temple the atmosphere was serenely calm; the only audible sound was the soft, echoing, clack of his scaled boots on the polished, bronze floor. Brooding Kel Dor garbed in simple browns robes shuffled alone and in groups, amongst the pillars and passageways. The interior itself was a dim, baked amber. Ornate wall lamps flickered with a warm glow, casting bright patterns across the floor. Clack. Clack. Clack. He could feel his master’s presence; the sages paused to observe them as he stalked towards the meditation chambers, yet curiously made no move to stop him. Nor was he concerned with them.

With a sharp whir the doors to the central meditation chamber swung open and he stepped inside. He clamped them shut behind him with an aggressive clench, sending light shudders through the walls and sealing them in. Before him, knelt a figure, clad in the robes of the Baran Do. His master. He occupied the very centre of the chamber. It was a circular room with tall curved walls, but instead of extending high into the ceiling they merged into rough stone, the very stone the walls themselves were carved from. He looked up, and looked up at the roof of a cave jutting stubby stalactites. The chamber had been left unfinished, a reminder of the earth that gave birth to them all. But his attention was quickly drawn back to his master.

“I knew you would come here, Sion” he spoke in a commanding tone. “The Baran Do foretold of told of your arrival.”

“Then you will know I have come to kill you.” Sion sneered.

The Kel Dor rose to his feet and turned to face his lost Padawan. Illuminated by the dim glow he could see his breath mask had been removed. Revealing small white tusks that framed his toothless, chasmic mouth. And in his pupiless eyes, an empty black, he saw a weary sadness.

“You have cut off your braid.”

“It is the mark of the Jedi, the mark of the weak.”

His master sighed. “They told me that if I did not destroy you here, you will bring a terrible darkness upon the galaxy. But it is not too late for you to be saved. I sense the dark side in you Sion, but it is not your own. You have been possessed, infected by malevolent spirits. Exar Kun is controlling you. Is it not obvious?”

Sion hissed. “Exar Kun showed me true power. He showed me the power that you would not, that the Jedi would not. It is you who have controlled me.”

“The Jedi do not seek power, but to protect those who lack it. If you continue down this path, the dark side will consume you. But it is not too late, you can resist it Sion, you –”

“Enough!” Sion bellowed. “The age of the Jedi is at an end. And you will be the first to fall.”

In a blur of motion Sion ignited his blue blade and broke into a fierce frenzy, the gap closed instantly as Sion launched himself across the chamber and descended on his master like a falling avalanche, but it was met with a sharp parry. Sion pushed the offensive unperturbed with rage etched across his face, veins bulging, eyes ablaze, mouth twisted into a feral snarl and his slashing, hacking weapon an extension of his emotions.

Shattered rock spewed in all directions as his lightsaber cut through stone, the Kel Dor ducking aside and around his opponent. Sion spun to face him as he backed away, unleashing another flurry, determined to break his defence. The Kel Dor could sense his frustration, and then, in a brief moment of clarity, he saw beneath the volatile surface, he could see the spirits, angry, erratic, and deeper still, where he hoped, perhaps, to find a glimmer of light, of hope, a fragment of the Jedi he once knew, he saw only darkness. His Padawan was truly gone.

He knew what he must do.

The invisible tide of the battle turned. The Kel Dor unleashed an emerald swarm of saber strikes, driving his opponent on the defensive. He was everywhere at once, behind him, above, in front, an intense and unpredictable blur of energy. Sion was still caught up in surprise as his master tore his defences to ribbons, his arrogance had blinded him to the truth, that he was still but the Padawan. With the realisation came pain, a gasp, and the sound of his lightsaber clattering to the floor.

With an elaborate flourish his master had amputated his arm and scored his chest with a mortal wound. For a brief moment time seemed to slow, as Sion hovered in place, motionless and mutilated. The time began again with a sharp crack as his bone grey armour struck against the cold floor. His cape fluttered, then was still.

“I’m sorry, Sion.” His lightsaber retreated into its hilt and disappeared into the furrows of his robes. For a moment he simply stood there, entering a state of meditation, centring his mind in the wake of the settling storm.

Then the tide turned again. An immense swell in the dark side snapped the Kel Dor out of his trance, a black angry darkness like nothing he had felt before. His eyes darted about the dim chamber, seeking the source of the surge. And then, grew wide with realisation –

It was too late; Sion’s cold blue blade had already thrust itself into his stomach. He let out a wheezing grunt. His eyes dropped downward to stare at his Padawan crouched on the floor, who gripped the lightsaber in his remaining arm. His face twisted into unnameable anger. The snarl twisted into a sickening smile as Sion sheathed the blade and staggered upward as his master collapsed to the ground.

“How?” The Kel Dor croaked.

Sion laughed, and laughed. “I told you. I told you the dark side was stronger. It has made me immortal!" he proclaimed, striking his fist against his chest. Then he reignited his weapon.

“Let us see if the light can do the same.”

He would have let himself die. He would have let his Padawan kill him, knowing that though Sion had saved himself from death, that he would live on through the Force for ever. But he could not. For if he died here, now, this monster that he had created would bring horror and pain on the galaxy. He had to be stopped.

Sion paused to savour the moment; his master was at his mercy, the Force was stronger in him, stronger than it had it been in any Jedi. By killing him here he would prove himself superior, prove himself to Exar Kun. But then the ground began to shake. A bright white glow seemed to resonate from the wounded Kel Dor as he became a living conduit for the Force. The tremor grew stronger and Sion attempted to end his master there and then, but an invisible wave of energy threw him back. Again he lunged at his master but it was already too late. High above him the tremors had spread up the walls in invisible ripples, rattling and shaking the hanging stalactites as fissures snaked across the chamber roof. And then, in destructive unison, the fragmented ceiling collapsed. Jagged teeth and irregular lumps of rock cascaded downward with thundering inevitability.

Sion had only time to stare, and scream, to shield his face in a useless gesture. And then the deluge engulfed them both in dusty rubble.

*** *** ***

But Sion was not dead, no; instead he dragged his bloodied body from the mountain of rock. His bones smashed and fragmented, held together by sheer will.

He slaughtered them all. He slaughtered every sage he could fine. He cracked their withered skulls against the walls. Crushed them in invisible grips. Impaled them on their own weapons. Only those who fled survived, the rest were massacred. They would not forget this day.

Sion had refused the healing his master had offered. Only accepting a mechanical appendage to replace his severed arm which he hid beneath a long black sleeve. But Exar Kun could have fused his bones back together, sealed the wounds in his flesh, make him whole again. But Sion did not want to be “whole”, in that he saw weakness. Instead he embraced his pain, recognised it as the source of his power, his power to become immortal. In pain he saw strength. And so he endured, decades would pass, he would watch the Mandalorians wage war against the Republic, he would hunt down the Jedi, fell countless soldiers. He would feel his bones fracture and break again and again, his flesh begin to rot and crack. And in time he would be beyond healing, beyond redemption, his body held together only through sheer strength of will, through pain.

*** *** ***

“No one could possibly have survived that.” One of the troopers remarked as the smoke cleared and they staggered towards the heap of twisted metal.

“He’s survived worse.” Another replied.

For a moment they waited, waited for a sign.

A hand burst from the wreckage, spewing shards of metal upward in a discordant fountain. The troopers flinched. The disembodied hand, a pale greenish-gray, proceeded to drag a body from beneath the rubble, which then took on autonomy of its own and marched towards the stunned pair of soldiers.

“Commander.”

The commander, clad in red, flinched again.

“Yes, my, my Lord.”

“Status report.”

He paused, to stare at that bulbous white eye. That cracked reddish flesh. The rumours were he had been shot in the face with a missile, and then choked the man who shot him.

Then he blurted it out, he couldn’t help himself. “Ah, do you need medical attention, my Lord?”

Sion frowned, he always frowned. But this frown seemed to dim the very air around them. He took a step forward, so his face was but centimetres away from his shiny transparisteel visor. So that he could see the commander’s quivering expression within.

“Do I look like I need medical attention, commander?”

“N-No, my Lord. Not at all, my Lord.” The commander began to feel faint.

“Status. Report. Now.”

“Y-Yes of course. All the cargo has left the system my Lord, and is en route to Ziost. The explosives have been primed and your shuttle is ready for departure. Shall I give the order?”

“Yes, commander. Begin the final evacuation immediately and have the detonator ready.”

“Yes, Lord Sion.”

Sion began to stalk away, the stopped. “What is the estimated collateral damage, commander?”

The commander hesitated, and then reeled off the pre-memorised information. “All invading Republic forces within a ten klick radius will be eliminated. Civilian casualties estimated at five hundred thousand.”

“Good.”

*** *** ***

The commander was not mistaken on his estimates. Mere minutes later the explosives detonated, extinguishing the lives of half a million people as the hanging cityscape above was torn from his moorings and cascaded downward onto the buildings below, engulfing everything in fire and smoke. They were not the first innocents to die by his hand, and they would not be the last.

V

Spoiler

“You have learned much, apprentice. “Your progress is... impressive.”

The voice emanated from his master who stood before a pool of dark, black liquid. The chamber was dark, like the rest of the academy, faintly lit by an ominous green glow that seemed to come from nowhere.

“Why have you brought me here?”

“To complete your training. Approach the pool.”

He complied, edging towards her.

“Tell me. How do you feel?”

“Empty.” He rasped.

“I am not surprised. Your powers have rapidly increased since I discovered you. But power can be a double-edged sword. As you grow stronger, so does your hunger. Already your body has begun to show signs of decay. And inside you, the hole grows ever larger. Eventually your hunger will consume you... and your body will be destroyed.”

His eyes grew wide. “What must I do?”

“You must enter the pool; immerse yourself in it. You will emerge... different. But you will be protected.”

He edged closer, eyes flicking downward to peer into the fathomless depths of the pool. His reflection stared back at him. A broken, decaying man with pale sunken eyes and cracked skin. For a moment the image seemed to flicker, and he caught a glimpse of a bone white mask on its oily surface. Then it was gone.

“What will it do to me?”

“It will make you stronger. You needn’t ask any more questions.” She was growing impatient.

He was hiding something from him, more secrets, always secrets. But he had no other choice. Without thinking his feet began to move into the water, the murky liquid clinging to his feet and crawling up his legs. They tugged him in deeper, moving up to his thighs, then he fell down on his knees as think black tendrils coiled themselves around his stomach and began to creep up his chest, his neck – and then, letting the water take over, he slipped back and let the darkness consume him.

As the pool closed over his face Traya stepped into the water and began to move her hands in ancient patterns. It began to steam a black mist, gaseous serpents erupting into the air and concealing her face in a darkened haze. Then misty tendrils dipped into the waters and lifted her apprentice out of the pool, suspending his body in the air like a limp corpse, dripping black slime. Then the liquid grew still, solidified, becoming tattered robes of deepest black. And as the last wisps of smoke began to disappear a single slither coiled itself about his cold face, mist made material, forming a bone white mask, shaped like a skull.

The ritual was over, the Sith magic released its hold on him and he was dropped to his feet. The water lapped at the hem of his robes as he stepped out from the pool, he looked down at his hands. Then turned to look at his reflection, and she looked at him. She had forged his robes and armour through a complex alchemic ritual, yet she lacked complete control over the process. The Force projects its will on all things, manifesting itself in dark, light, neither or both. His robes were one such manifestation. The dark side given shape. His hollowness given form. And as her apprentice rose from the waters his faceless façade had struck a morbid chord in her mind. Awakening a fragment of forgotten memory.

She had seen the mask before, she was certain of it. On Korriban, deep within the tomb of Ludo Kressh, beside the wounded one, that pale decaying corpse. What this what her vision had been showing her, the future? No, she would define that. Destiny was like a thick bile, forced down the throats of the naïve and the unworthy. Let them play in the sandpit of the galaxy. She had greater purpose, her own purpose.

“What... is this?” Her apprentice’s voice opened up a hollow rift in her thoughts. It was cold and distant, like a displaced echo. He raised a gloved hand to brush across the rim of his mask, still transfixed by his spectral reflection. Amongst the watery blur the quivering image of his master appeared beside him.

“It is a cocoon that will protect you from your hunger. I have bound it to your life force, and when your physical body has been eroded away, it will inhabit your spirit.”

“But...” he began. “You said we could break it, you said we could win. This is not victory.”

“Those words were yours apprentice, not mine.” She began in a level tone. “Surely you did not expect to do battle with the Force, and emerge unscathed?”

“No –”

“We must all make sacrifices, apprentice. ‘The spirit is willing, but the flesh it weak.’”

“...Master?”

“It is a Jedi phrase, they are not as ignorant as you might think. We all have will, apprentice. But we are confined, the Force confines us. You have the advantage, you are not touched by the Force as others are. And as your hunger erodes your corporeal form you draw further from its embrace. In time, with such power, you can strike at the Force with impunity.”

“But, how?”

“Patience, apprentice. You must learn to handle the sword before you can swing. But today you have taken a step, a great step.”

“Then, does this complete my training?”

“Yes, your training is finished. What you must learn now only you can teach. You are no longer my apprentice.” She paused, gazing at his reflection in the pool. “The man you once were is dead, you must take a title.”

His gaze drifted from her likeness to stare again at his own shadow. This time peering deep into the recesses of the skull. They say the eyes are a window into the soul. But in his he saw nothing.

“Darth Nihilus, Lord of Hunger.”

For a moment Traya considered the title. “So be it” she stepped away from the pool. “But remember Lord Nihilus, you may no longer be my apprentice, but I shall always be your master.”

Nihilus turned to face her. “Yes, master.” He knelt, the cape of his robes folding over his crouched form to swallow him up in obsidian blackness. “What is thy bidding?”

*** *** ***

A harsh wind cut across Malachor’s jagged surface. Traya stood atop an outcrop, gazing down at the newly anointed Darth Nihilus below with atrophied eyes. She tried to probe his thoughts as she had done many times, but as always she saw nothing. His mind was overshadowed by the blackness of his heart; he was invisible to her, and unknown. And it made her afraid.

“It cannot be done.” His voice echoed across the dead landscape.

“Nothing is impossible with the Force.”

Nihilus was very still. He seemed an extension of the planet itself. A pillar of darkness rising upward from a shadowy world. He stood, dwarfed, before the prow of Ravager, a colossal behemoth semi-submerged beneath rubble and debris with a long, jagged furrow trailing behind it. It had lay there, collecting dust, for years, but now it was manned and its life support systems reactivated. Ready to fly. But it would not fly. The damage the vessel had suffered was too great for the Ravager to drag itself from Malachor’s iron grip.

Yet she demanded he lift it.

“Use the energies around you, Lord Nihilus. This world thrums with the power of the dark side. Allow your hunger to feed off it and you will find the strength that you require.”

Nihilus continued to stand very still. He stood very still for a long time. But then, around him, the ground began to faintly tremble. Dust motes began to rise and shake as if possessed by some invisible field of energy, swirling about the folds of his robes like a miniature tornado. And through the Force, she saw a hurricane of dark side energy gathering about an empty core.

From within the folds of his robes a palm extended, like a claw, clutching at an invisible throat. It trembled, the ground trembled, and the Ravager, wedged between the jaws of Malachor’s barren surface, began to tremble too. The jaws widened, crumbled, the earth shook. And then the Ravager groaned a low metallic roar that seemed to shake the very air around them.

Nihilus’ trembling palm twisted upraised, struggling to support an invisible weight. Another palm extended, trembling like its counterpart. And then, slowly, the Ravager began to rise. Vast swathes of rock and rubble cascaded off the battered sides of the vessels colossal hull. The ground quakes had intensified until the entire plain they stood on mimicked his trembling hands. In moments the battlecruiser hung suspended almost five hundred feet of the ground. And then with a groaning hiss claw like landing legs extended from its scarred underbelly, coupled with the hum of the repulsorlift engines coming to life.

Nihilus released his grip, collapsing to the ground in exhaustion, as the Ravager landed lightly on the earth. He had achieved the impossible.

Still bent over from exhaustion, Traya approached him.

“Will it... will it fly?” He gasped.

“The engines are intact, the bridge remains unscathed. But the pull of Malachor will prevent it from ever departing this place. Use what you have learned here, Lord Nihilus. Size means nothing to the Force. Feed on this planet as it would feed on you, overcome the power of the mass shadows and set this vessel free. Then you will do what I have commanded of you.”

Nihilus rose to his feet, “As you wish.”

He felt a new power swell within him. Freedom. Today he defied the impossible; tomorrow he would defy the galaxy. And in time, he would defy his master.

VI

Spoiler

The Sith Citadel on Ziost was an unforgiving place. Its halls bore the bitter chill of the icy cliff it rested upon, the pall of the dark side whispered with the ears of its occupants and within its deepest recesses ancient secrets were guarded by arcane magicks and insidious snares. Once the focal point Sith power the faded edifice has been seized as the center of Sion’s new empire.

Sion reclined upon a high backed throne carved from stone and etched with twisted ghoulish faces. The throne room was a narrow hall, lit by a faint whitish light that streamed through a narrow crack in the wall behind him. Kneeling statues lined the hall on either side, bent under the weight of pillars resting on their backs, which in turn supported curtains of stone that stretched up into the ceiling. In between the statues archways lay open, and obscured by festering darkness lay rusted piles of ancient artifacts and lavish treasures of a rich and wealth empire long since faded.

A figure entered the throne room, a female Zabrak clad with alabaster skin and cold gray eyes, the black hood of her Sith garb pulled over her cranial horns.

She stopped before her master, and knelt.

“My Lord, a battlecruiser has dropped out of hyperspace over the planet.” She spoke in a clipped Coruscanti accent. “It isn’t registering as one of our own, and we’ve been unable to make contact.”

For a moment Sion considered her words. Before him knelt Elana Vex, the former apprentice of the late Sith Master of Belderone. He had refused to swear his allegiance to Sion’s new empire, and he had paid with his life. Yet his apprentice had seen the opportunity for what it was, a chance to be a part of a new age of Sith dominance.

She was powerful, and possessed great potential. In time he would take her on as his own apprentice, if she proved herself worthy.

“Tell me what you know of this ship.” He rumbled.

“Centurion-class, my lord. They haven’t seen action since the Jedi Civil War, and our scanners are detecting extensive damage to the hull. It...” She paused.

“Why do you hesitate?”

“It’s just, according to our scanners, the ship has suffered damage on such a magnitude...”

“Spit it out.” He growled impatiently.

“That it shouldn’t be capable of traversing hyperspace, my lord. The gravitation pull would almost certainly tear it apart.”

Sion’s scarred hands gripped the arms of his throne. Something felt wrong, a disturbance in the Force.

“Has the vessel attempted to make contact?”

“No, my lord. We’ve attempted to hail it but receive no response. It’s just, floating there.” She was clearly unnerved, he could smell her fear.

*** *** ***

Darth Nihilus gazed at the frost-bitten world before him from the bridge of the Ravager. The unforgiving tug of hyperspace had threatened to tear his ship apart; only through the power of his hunger was he able to keep it intact. His presence had begun to fill the vessel, its battered corridors seethed with his unquenchable hunger, slowly eroding the very essence of its inhabitants. In time, the Ravager would be an embodiment of his will.

It was time to exact his master’s commands.

The cold silence of space was breached as a grey shuttle quietly descended on the Sith World. Bringing with it a darkness unfathomable. To those dulled to the Force, it was nothing, a cold chill. But to those who could see, he was a blank spot, a hole where something once was but existed no longer. Few could comprehend his presence, and for those who did the revelation would come far too late.

A squad of troopers moved into action as the shuttle neared the Citadel, a cold and imposing structure perched atop a cliff face, drenched in snow and ice, and adorned with thick towers and turrets. With a pneumatic hiss, the shuttle touched down on an ancient stone platform jutting out from the fortress, throwing up powdered flurries. The troopers approached the ship cautiously, the sensed something was wrong, felt the air grow colder.

The pale mist began to clear, and a tall phantom emerged into the open. The troopers raised their weapons but in vain, in moments they were twitching, shuddering bodies as the spectre drained their energy and reduced them to shrivelled corpses, left to decay in metal husks. He drifted past the dead soldiers and entered the Citadel. Its halls were largely abandoned; only a small section of the vast complex had been reclaimed, populated with dim glow lamps, crates – and now, bodies. Nihilus left silence in his wake, systematically sapping the vitality from all he came across without speaking a word, or raising a finger. Few had the time to even notice his presence, and those he did died before they could scream. Their withered faces twisted in horror.

He knew not the temples design, but the palpable thrum of his quarry guided him through the endless passageways and chambers. The being he sought was powerful, but he would submit.

*** *** ***

Sion could feel, something, drawing closer. Or rather nothing. An emptiness in the Force. Its intentions unknown. The throne room lay empty; he had dispatched all available forces to deal with the threat. But they would not be enough.

“Lord Sion!”

Elana Vex burst into the chamber, her face seemed gaunter, her skin more pale, and her eyes almost deadened.

“Lord Sion, it’s, it’s –” her words were silenced as an invisible hand clutched her throat and lifted her off her feet. Sion rose from his throne in surprise and threw back his cape as she scratched and clawed at the invisible hand but could not break its grip. Behind her, the throne room’s tall and dusty doors slid open on ancient mechanisms. A pillar of light shone into the darkened hall, haloing a black and fearsome shadow which smeared its likeness of the floor before them.

Like an apparition, Darth Nihilus drifted into the room. His victim still suspended and struggling in the air between them. Then an arm emerged from within the folds of his robes, it raised a gloved hand, then clenched it in a fist, crushing Elana’s windpipe with a sickening crunch. Then the arm shot forward and the arm splayed and the corpse was tossed across the chamber, its progress coming to a halt at the foot of Sion’s throne. For a moment Sion simply stared at the corpse, at the wasted potential. He let his anger fuel his hatred, until it began to bubble over. His single, pale eye flashed a sulphuric yellow.

“Who are you?” He growled.

“I,” the spectre bellowed “am Darth Nihilus, Lord of Hunger. Servant of Darth Traya, she has taken an interest in you, your exploits of immortality have crossed the galaxy. Come with me to Malachor Five, and swear your allegiance to my master. Then, together, as a triumvirate of the dark side, we shall eradicate the Jedi and the Republic shall kneel before our power.”

With slow, deliberate motions Sion stepped down from the throne and over Elana’s corpse. His blade ignited with an angry hiss, burning brightly in the gloom of the chamber.

“You have desecrated my Citadel. And murdered my apprentice. I will not join you, and I will never serve your master.”

Nihilus exhaled a low and distant sigh. Like the howling of an approaching storm. Or the screaming of a thousand hollow voices.

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The statements and opinions expressed on these websites are solely those of their respective authors and do not necessarily reflect the views, nor are they endorsed by Bioware, LucasArts, and its licensors do not guarantee the accuracy of, and are in no way responsible for any content on these websites.